Taming Pitch
by nowordswriter
Summary: Wherein a lonely sprite of winter meets the snarky shadow of fear, and grudgingly become friends
1. They Meet Pt 1

Pitch was the first immortal Jack ever met. It had been just a few weeks since Jack first woke. He was painfully new to the workings of his kind. But he was aware of the other spirits. He had seen the streams of gilded sand, caught the flutter of faerie feathers. He knew there were others like him, ageless and inexplicably tied to mortals. But he never found them and they never looked for him.

Pitch had been an accident. Pitch had been a try too desperate, an attempt too many. Jack was so new, so ignorant to the rules. And there were rules, unspoken and unwritten but still unquestioningly there. It had been set for the safety of the spirits. And Jack knew nothing of it. He broke the first rule, the cardinal rule. He interacted directly and with a concious, fully aware mortal. He wasn't supposed to do that.

Jack left hand prints on windows. He wrote his name on the frost. He snuck into houses. He sat at dinner tables. He terrified people. With his very presence, he brought a chill, a gust of air that sent shivers crawling down their spines. His marks, his hand prints, his name came to be a calling from the grave. They thought him a vengeful spirit and they feared him.

Pitch had been drawn to that fear, a moth to the trembling flame. He had heard the hysterical cries of mothers, wives when their perfectly cooked meals froze on their plates. He had heard the frustrated curses of fathers, husbands as they fought a presence they could not fathom. He had heard the children, their hushed whispers in the shadow of the moon, praying to be left alone. Pitch had revelled in it. But it was not his work. He needed to give credit where credit was due.

Pitch had found Jack nestled amongst the tree tops. The boy was shooting sparrows out of the air, freezing them with his curious staff. The poor things were dead before they hit the ground. At a later hour, their corpses would be found by some hapless child, and oh, how the sweet darling will scream. Pitch laughed and slowly clapped his hands.

"Oh, very good! Very good, indeed!" Pitch called out.

The boy stiffened, whirling around. He spied Pitch beneath him and curiously cocked his head.

"I liked what you did there." Pitch continued. "Superb work, I must say."

The boy blinked before pointing to himself. "Wait. Are-Are you talking to me?"

Pitch raised a questioning brow. "Who else would I be speaking to?"

"You... You can see me? You - You can hear me?!"

Comprehension dawned on Pitch. "My dear child, have you been all alone this entire time?"

"I'm not a child." The boy protested, curling in on himself.

But it had been answer enough. Pitch smirked. "You have never met a kindred spirit, have you?"

"You're not mortal?"

"Do I look mortal?"

The boy huffed out a laugh. "Never seen a'body with your coloring before."

"Hmmm, yes." Pitch hummed, distinctly unamused.

"Oh lighten up, tall, dark, and spooky."

"My name is Pitch Black. I am more widely known as the Boogeyman."

The boy stilled then. There was recognition in there, and a touch of fear. Pitch liked this boy already.

"The Boogeyman?"

"Yes. Now who, pray tell, are you?"

"I'm Jack. Jack Frost."

Pitch smirked just a little wider. "It is a pleasure to meet you then, Jack Frost."


	2. They Meet Pt 2

"We are the same, you and I." Pitch begins.

"We are?" Jack echoes.

"Oh, yes. Mortals can't see me either. At least, not as much as they used to."

"You're invisible too?"

"And intangible."

"Why is that?"

"Well, you see, we spirits require belief in order to be seen, to be heard, to be..." Pitch floats up to Jack's perch. He reaches out and the boy flinches. Isn't that just a delight? He brushes a knuckle against that white-washed skin. "...touched."

Jack presses himself against the tree, warily watching this strange creature before him. He swallows. "Belief?"

Pitch smirks. "Yes. They must know your name, your power. They must acknowledge you exist. If they don't..."

He lets the sentence hang, allowing the young sprite to finish it himself. And finish it, he does. Pitch can see the boy relive every single moment he had been ignored, unheard, and passed through. His breath comes in shorter gasps, agitation bleeding into his delicious fear.

"Does that mean - Does that mean I just have to make them believe in me? And then, they'll see me?"

"And you will be lonely no longer."

Jack stiffens. "Wha - How did you know?"

"Apart from the obvious? You said it yourself, Jack. You've never met a fellow spirit. Who else would you talk to? The wind?'

Jack shifts uneasily. "...yes."

Pitch sighs rather dramatically. "You are a poorer soul than I first thought. But yes, apart from the obvious, I can see your greatest fears. It's the one thing I always know. I am the Boogieman, after all."

If it was possible to sound self-deprecating and proud at the same time, Pitch managed it. At Jack's baffled silence, he presses on.

"I saw what you did in the village. You terrified those townsfolk. They kept muttering about vengeful spirits and feared their own shadows. It was magnificent."

Jack's eyes widen. He bows his head, clutching his staff in a white-knuckled grip. "I did that?"

"And how!"

"I just wanted to be seen... to be heard."

"I dare say, you're on the right track. "

Jack snaps his head up. "I never meant to scare them!"

Pitch blinks, quirking a curious brow. "Is that so?"

Jack purses his lips. "That's... That's not what I wanted."

"Why not? If they fear you, they'll believe in you."

"Look." Jack cuts in, shaking his head. "I'm not like you. I don't thrive on fear or terror. That's not for me."

Pitch is struck silent, shock taints his expression before he recovers. A scowl scars his lips as he floats back down.

"Pity. And here I was, thinking I finally found an ally. But then, hopeful wishing was never my area of expertise."

Jack starts, crouching on the balls of his feet. "Wait! Are you leaving?"

Pitch sends him a curious look. "There's nothing for me here. Is there?"

"But you can't just leave! We just met! We just started talking! You can't just leave me all by myself!"

Fear is rolling off the boy in waves. Pitch is almost tempted to stay and revel in it. But no. That would ruin it.

"Watch me." He sneers, relishing that last rush of terror. He draws the shadows around him and prepares to sink into the familiar abyss. But a cold, bony weight slams into him at the very last second.

There's a busy moment as Pitch tries to untangle himself from the winter sprite. The shadows, heedless of his struggles, swallow them both and together, they arrive at Pitch's home. They land in a messy heap on the floor, with Jack somehow straddling the older spirit.

The boy has the gall to grin at Pitch. "I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Don't you?"

Pitch clocks him in the face.


	3. No One Else

"Nice place you got here. Really... uh, neat?"

"What are you still doing here? Did I not tell you to leave?"

"I mean I didn't have any expectations or anything. But this isn't it."

"I believe there was even an epic battle of sorts?"

"Nothing screams 'Boogieman' to me. Where are the lava pits? The torture chambers? The screaming of the damned?"

"I'm sorry. I think you have me confused with someone else."

"There's nothing here! You don't even have chairs!"

"Oh the horror. No chairs. What is this world coming to."

"I can spruce it up! I'm pretty handy with ice."

"I think you've done enough. Or do you not recall the giant spear of ice jutting out of my parlor? You tried to skewer me with it?"

Jack turns and flashes him a wry smile. "You don't have a parlor."

"Aha! So he can hear me!" Pitch throws up his hands. "And here I thought you'd forgotten all about me!"

"Don't be so dramatic." Jack shakes his head, rolling his eyes. "I could never forget you, Boogieman."

Pitch scowls, narrowing his gaze as the little imp strutted about his home. The accursed child looked like he owned the place. There is a skip in his step and a dare in his smile. Pitch wants nothing more than to bash his head against the walls, dash his brains across the floor. He grits his teeth and does nothing.

So it has come to this. The once feared and powerful Nightmare King reduced to hiding under beds and squeezing into closets, not even capable of scaring away pesky winter sprites. Oh how the mighty have fallen.

After their first meeting, the frostling bid a hasty retreat. All it took was a few shadows, an echo of a scream, to send him running. Child's play, really. Pitch thought he'd seen the last of the sprite. But in allowing the boy to escape, he carelessly allowed the boy to find the only physical entrance. For the way in is the way out and one night, no more special than any other night, Pitch found himself host once more to one Jack Frost.

The second meeting went a bit better than the first. But only because the second meeting lasted a mere half minute. Pitch had appeared at him home, as per usual, and found Jack perched on a stalagmite. The boy had the gall to wave at him.

"Hello, Pitch. I am here." He chirped.

"You!" Pitch cried, conjuring a wreath of shadows.

"Goodbye, Pitch. I am gone." And with a peppy salute, the boy summoned a blast of hoarfrost wind.

It sent Pitch reeling. By the time he gather his wits, Jack was gone.

The third meeting lasted longer and went a little worse. There was an attempt at conversation. Or at least, Jack made small talk. Pitch just threatened him with torture and entrapment. He had half a mind to follow through, at least at the time. The boy had power and Pitch is many things, but blind he is not. There was a certain allure to the chill Jack sent skittering down his spine. He could find many a use for such a skill. But the sprite proved to be slippery as his elemental namesake and the mouthiest brat Pitch ever had the displeasure of meeting. He quickly abandoned all plots of enslavement. And with a well-timed screech, he drove the boy from his lair.

It was the sixth meeting when blows were first exchanged. Jack was no longer frightened by paltry parlor tricks or the occasional death threat. So, Pitch went for the jugular. He aimed for the private and the personal. He picked at Jack's fears, peeling away those scabbed over anxieties with sharpened nails. He split smiles open and lets the yellow terror ooze out. He draped the boy in dread, burying him in half-empty truths and half-filled lies. The sprite denied him at every turn. He screamed and shouted, stamping his feet with fists curled and grit teeth. But Pitch pushes and pushes hard. And all too quickly, the boy breaks.

The winterling unleashed a fury only hell hath known. And Pitch learned the truth. He learned that Jack was the shout before an avalanche. That he wore a mask of ice about to crack. That he hid a surging froth of fury behind a callous smirk. Pitch learned the winterling burns the way no winterling should burn. For the truth is, Pitch learned, Jack is a very angry boy. He is a snowball on the precipice of a cliff. All he needs is a push.

And oh, how Pitch had pushed.

They collided in a swirling mess of black and white. The resulting explosion shook Pitch's home, broke loose a few stalactites and gouged scars into the ground. But damn, if it wasn't the most fun Pitch had in over a century. It was a pity, he thought then, that the boy would surely leave and never return. Surely, he thought then, a battle of that ilk would keep the boy permanently away. But Pitch then was not the Pitch now. And Pitch then had not known Jack Frost.

After only a few days, Pitch found himself entertaining the company of a certain winter sprite. Again. The boy just refused to leave him alone and it absolutely confounded him. At a complete and total loss, Pitch finally forced himself to ask the query that has plagued him since the boy first came back.

"Why?" He hissed through his teeth. "You are obviously not welcome here. Why do you insist on returning? For all that is sacred and holy, I am the Boogieman! Why me?"

And Jack curled his lips, but it wasn't a smile. It broke around the corners and it failed to reach his eyes. He looked away and spoke so softly, Pitch nearly didn't hear.

"There's no one else."

It was the bald-faced truth, stripped bare of any mask or pretenses. It was reality summed up in four short words. For this is the truth, their kind have dwindled to an echo of their former glory. Their world once teemed with sprites and spirits and monsters and magic. Now, they were all gone. For this is the truth, Jack Frost is an enigma. A winterling born when all before him were dead or dying. There are a precious few Jack could meet, and an even smaller few who could give him the time of day. There is no one else.

Pitch thought, if he had a heart, it would break itself in two. But pity would garner him no blessings. The sprite proved to be nothing more than a nuisance, an impediment. Pitch had a throne to reclaim. He cannot waste his time on lonely children crying for attention.

And now, he sits, stewing - watching the sprite strut about his home. He has long lost count the number of meetings since that fateful battle and subsequent aftermath. It could very well be the boy's twentieth visit. It is of little consequence. Pitch will rid himself of the pesky winter sprite, one way or another. Jack Frost will rue the day he ever met the Boogieman.


	4. He's in Trouble

Jack quite likes his new companion, this odd, pointy fellow, Pitch Black. He finds it fun to chuck snowballs at him and braid snowflakes into his hair. He makes the funniest noises of frustration. Jack thinks it endearing really. Pitch refuses to share the sentiment.

The Nightmare King regrets the day he met Jack Frost. The little hellion of a boy had stuck fast to his side. At first, Jack had nursed a hint of fear, allowing his presence to be tolerable. Pitch was never one to turn down a free meal. But the terror soon melted away, familiarity taking its place. Now, the boy is downright insufferable. He behaved like a scruffy, lost pup and trailed after Pitch. Even if Pitch managed to loose Jack, once he returned to his dwellings, there Jack would be. The loyal puppy ever eager for fun times. Though Jack's idea of fun involved seeing how mad Pitch could get before he actively begun attacking him. So far, it didn't take much.

Presently, Jack sits to his left, idly tossing up snowballs and watching them burst against the ceiling. He's prattling about some blizzard or sledding incident. Pitch really couldn't care less. Today had not been the best of days. He had lost a few of his already sparse believers. The once fragile colonies had grown in size and stability. The settlers were no longer rife with fear or plagued by doubts. It was a brave, new world and it left no room for Pitch. So no, he didn't have a very good day.

Jack's incessant presence, a pain even in his better moods, manifests into a torture. Here is the Fates adding insult to injury, their mockery found in the laughing eyes of Jack Frost. Well, he would stand it no longer.

He is the Nightmare King. He need not suffer through the thousand aimless hours of the sprite's company. He need not endure the putrid pranks and ceaseless cackling. He has lived since Man first drew breath, older than the ever-watchful Moon. Jack Frost is a worm beneath his feet and it is time he learned his place.

Pitch draws the shadows around him. He hears Jack pause in his prattling, his attention caught. A delightful smirk cracks across Pitch's lips as he summons his ink-like portals. Jack will follow. Jack always follows. But if Pitch lingers just a breath longer, almost beckoning the boy, well, the sprite is none the wiser.

They teleport to some forgotten island near the equator. It is home to a resilient few, all deliciously supersticious and wary of the world. It is one of Pitch's favorite haunts. But more importantly, it is repressively warm.

Jack stumbles in after him. His cheeks grow paler as the warmth washes over him. He appears physically incapable of flushing red. Curious.

"Wow." Jack gasps, pulling at his collar. A thin sheen of sweat already forms on his brow. "So, uh, wow. What-What are we, uh, doing here?"

"We are not doing anything. I am here to check in on my believers." Pitch intones, shifting from one swaying shadow to the next.

The Wind, Jack's constant companion, is markedly absent. It leaves him grounded. He attempts to follow Pitch only to burn himself on the sun-washed sand. The boy staggers after him regardless, leaning heavily against his staff. Pitch commends his tenacity but scoffs at his foolishness. The boy had the self preservation skills of a gnat. No, wait. That would be an insult to the gnat.

Pitch moves along, appearing oblivious to the winter sprite's difficulties. He does check up on his believers. But it is nearing noon, and really, there is little he could do during day time. He is stalling for the inevitable. Jack had commented here and there then fell blessedly silent. They make it halfway across the island before it happens.

Pitch hears a dull thud behind him. He turns to find Jack sprawled against the heated, white sand. His clothes are soaked with sweat and almost appear to drip off rail thin limbs. He looks like he's melting. His skin bleached a bone white, he lies unnaturally still.

And there is something simply wrong with seeing Jack so still. Pitch attempts to form explanations, coherent and erudite explanations, for the distinct throb in his chest. It is the sun. It is the heat. But really, all he can think is, it's Jack. It is bright, mischievous, infinitely bothersome Jack. Always whirling about, always laughing, always making a mess. But alive, so honestly and earnestly alive. To see Jack still is to see the sun rise from the west. It's just not supposed to happen.

The pressure in his chest refuses to ease. It only grows the longer he stares at Jack's inert form. He tries to look away, to walk away. He had planned this. It is the right and proper punishment for all the trouble Jack's caused. But, he can't. He can't. He just can't.

Pitch gnaws at his lip and clenches his fist before releasing a slow, steady breath. He kneels down, prodding the boy's cheek. Jack is still cool to the touch, unbelievable.

"I must be some sort of masochist." He sighs, slipping his arms under Jack's limp form. "C'mon then. Let's get you out of here."

He lifts the boy, jostling the sprite awake. Jack blinks up at Pitch, a small and lazy smile curls in the corner of his mouth.

"Thanks." He whispers hoarsely.

"Don't thank me yet." Pitch huffs, summoning his shadows. "I plan to torture you slowly, intimately, in all the ways you fear."

Jack coughs out a laugh. Pitch had used that line over a dozen times before. It's an empty threat, they both know it.

"No, I mean..." Jack murmurs and presses closer to Pitch. "I've never been to the beach before. I don't think I've ever seen a sky so blue. So, thanks."

Pitch makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat. He wants to shout, to scream, 'I almost killed you, you blithering idiot!' But he remains silent, trying and failing not to savor the cool weight of Jack in his arms. Touch is a luxury and it has been far too long. Pitch closes his eyes as the shadows take them away.

He's in trouble.

Because somewhere along the way, in their vastly convoluted relationship, Jack Frost became a constant in Pitch's life. Jack was the white noise in the background. A nuisance but he grew used to his presence. He came home and expected a chilled gust of air or a tightly, packed snowball to greet him. He expected to be trailed by fern-like frost and a dusting of ice. He expected to glance at his side and there Jack would be.

He is in so much trouble.

Coming home, Pitch lays Jack on some elevated platform. The sprite is fast asleep or in a dead faint. Either way, he is blissfully unaware and Pitch allows himself to card a hand through that snow white hair. It would be an act of affection if it had been by anyone else.

"What am I to do with you, Jack Frost?" Pitch murmurs, sincerely at a lost.

Jack only smiles in response, leaning into the touch.


	5. A Night Out

Pitch slides from beneath the girl's bed. She is a tiny thing, all rosy cheeks and curls. She couldn't be older than five, maybe six, years. She is the perfect prey. Pitch gets to work.

Really, all it takes is a whisper. It's nothing outlandish or exaggerated. That's the key. It has to be believable or fear won't have a foothold. It's not scary if it'll never happen. It's not frightening if it can't be real. It has to teeter on the edge of possibility. Because maybe, just maybe, there is something right outside your window. And you don't know what it is but it wants to come inside.

The poor girl wakes up screaming. Fat drops of tears roll down those oh so rosy cheeks. She catches sight of his shadow and screams her little heart out. Her terror is postively exquisite. Pitch smirks. How he would love to stay, truly, but he can hear the sound of footsteps. It's her mother to the rescue and he's overstayed his welcome, hasn't he?

He finds Jack nestled on a branch right outside the girl's window. A scowl curls on his lips but he makes no move to stop Pitch. It's for the best, really. They've done that whole song and dance before. Jack is acutely aware of how well his powers fair against Pitch. It's a tie, a solid and explosive tie. To battle is to assure mutual destruction. And there's nothing to be accomplished from punching each other out. It's simply not worth the fuss. Still, Jack toys with his staff like he wants nothing more than to skewer Pitch with it.

"Why do you follow me when you obviously disapprove of my work?" Pitch inquires, honestly curious.

Jack shrugs nonchalantly. "Got nothin' better to do."

"You are a strange one, Jack Frost." Pitch rolls his eyes, floating away.

"So you keep tellng me." Jack grins cheekily. He pays the Boogieman no mind as the shadowy spirit slides past him. His eyes are trained on the window, watching the unfolding events within.

The girl's mother sweeps into the room, hair in a tangled disarray and a robe thrown over her nightgown. The little girl, with red, puffy cheeks, raises her arms and her mother is quick to gather her in a warm embrace. They sit on the bed, rocking back and forth. Her mother soothingly whispers in her ears...

"It's all right now. You're safe. Mommy's here."

Something in Jack, something important, breaks.

"Don't look."

Jack jumps nearly falling out of the tree. He manages to regain his balance and whips around. Pitch hovers behind him, his expression unusually blank.

"Don't look." He repeats. "It hurts less that way."

Jack stares at him politely puzzled. Pitch offers no further explanation and glides away. Jack turns back to the window, watching the mother rock her daughter to sleep. A sigh of a moment passes before he finally understands. There are pins and needles in his throat. Shards he thinks of the thing that broke. He swallows them down and pushes off the branch, following after Pitch.

'Don't look. It hurts less that way.'

So he doesn't.

"Hey, wait up." Jack calls after Pitch.

The Boogieman doesn't even pause. "I have a schedule to keep, Jack. Unlike you, I have followers to retain."

The jibe hurts but Jack shakes it off like he shook off the dozen others before it. He urges the wind faster and siddles up next to Pitch, just close enough to barely not touch.

"And what do you want?" Pitch asks flatly.

Jack shrugs and bumps their shoulders together. It's the faintest of contact but the effect is immediately. Pitch stiffen like a frightened ally cat. But he doesn't pull away. Jack smirks yet remains silent. They stay like that, their sides pressed together, flying side by side.

It's not a mother's embrace. But it's enough. For the two of them, it's enough. It's a reminder, small it may be, but a reminded that they aren't alone. Misery can at least have company.


	6. Testing 1, 2, 3

Jack sleeps in his presence. He finds the sprite curled up in corners and nodded off in niches, arms twined around his staff. Pitch wonders if it is an act of defiant bravery or careless idiocy. Or perhaps, neither. Perhaps it is an act of trust. For six to eight hours, Jack lowers all his defenses, forsakes any masks, and leaves himself vulnerable. Pitch abuses the oppurtunity with great relish.

He tests his stolen dreamsand on the boy. He taints the gold, dyes it dark and ink-like. It is a slow process of trial and error. The sand's first instinct is always a shape of comfort. There are snowflakes and snowmen on sled rides with friends. It it whimsical, baring the truth of Jack's youth. Overriding this instinct proves an arduous task. His attempts leave the boy with piercing headaches and a strange case of vertigo. But he never remembers. By mid-morning, the pain has receded and nothing remains but an aftertaste of the surreal, not quite pleasant, not quite frightening, not quite there. When night sets, Jack scurries off to some newfound nest and falls asleep. There is no fanfare, no complaints, no hesistancy.

It baffles Pitch. The sprite does not appear aware of his night activies (of course not, Pitch had been very careful not to loose his only guinea pig). But the boy had more than enough known causes for apprenhension. Namely, Pitch himself. Jack knows of his presence, in fact, strangely attuned to it. He knows what lies a mere stone's throw away. He knows the creature of shadow and fear that lurks by his side. He knows the Boogieman is here. Still, the boy chooses to rest at the foor of the Nightmare King's throne. And for six to eight hours, he leaves himself open, lets himself fall asleep.

If it is trust, Pitch thinks it ill-placed.

He repeats his experiments each night. By happy accident, he achieves success on a new moon. The sky bleeds a bleak black, the stars shrouded by clouds. There is no light, only darkness, and a touch of fear. It is the perfect night to breed a new horror. The sand warps and twists from the vague shape of a warm embrace, a portrait of a parent with child, to a slim silhoutte born of curdling blood and rattling bone. Pitch perverses Jack's dream and sees a likeness of him. He is Jack's worst nightmare.

But the newly crafted terror has only begun. Pitch watches, in rapt fascination, as a Jack, wrought from the same ink-dark sand, joins his likeness. Then inexplicably, his likeness disperses and it is no quiet passing. It is a nightmare, after all. The sand offers no sound but the locked open jaw of his likeness bears a tortured scream. Jack groans in his sleep, twisting and turning as his dream self reaches for the shadow, for Pitch. But the boy can do nothing, can not even reach him in time. His arm outstretched, fingers grasping, clawing at nothing but air. And then, the shadow is gone, melts away with not a trace left behind.

Jack wakes up screaming. He wakes up crying Pitch's name. By then, Pitch, the real-living-breathing-still-here Pitch has long left his side. He is the Boogieman. He will offer the boy no comfort. Instead, Pitch retreats to the deep and secret recesses of his home, where none dare trespass, where none even know of. It is a void, an abyss, filled with the cacophony of silence. Here, Pitch takes sanctuary. He burrows into nothing and broods, pondering over that infernal frost imp. He had thought he knew the winterling, knew the child best, knew enough to predict him. He had been mistaken.

Somehow, someway, Jack Frost always manages to surprise him.

Pitch finds himself remembering the dream before it mutated. It had been a portrait of a parent with child, perhaps even a father and son. And he thinks of Jack curled up in corners and nodded off in niches, but always somewhere close, always within an arm's reach. And Pitch can't remember the last time he tried to chase the boy away, can't remember the last time they traded blows, can't remember the last time the sprite left. Because he had long since given up imprisoning the boy. Yet here Jack stands, eternally at his side.

Pitch had thought the nightmare was him. He had been mistaken. Jack did not fear him but feared loosing him.

"Thrice-damned boy." Pitch whispers. "How am I to frighten you with that?"


End file.
